


Blame it on the mistletoe

by iamleavingthisfandom



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, M/M, New Year's Eve, That's it, and some porn in the last chapter, as domestic as it can be with these three anyhow, oblivious Illya and Napoleon, shipper Gaby, this is basically how illeon get together on Christmas and New Year's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 07:06:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5530409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamleavingthisfandom/pseuds/iamleavingthisfandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, just a Christmas!AU about Illya/Napoleon. A little bit about how they are trying to stay oblivious of how they are smitten with each other, a little bit about how they get together and a little porn in the last chapter. Syrupy-sweet fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saying thank you

**Author's Note:**

> Kendall Schmidt – Blame It on the Mistletoe -> the song that inspired me to actually do this, hence the name. 
> 
> *Nyet (нет) - no (Rus)
> 
> The one with the drugs

“Clear,” Gaby’s voice cut through the silence of Solo’s earpiece, and he found himself almost running forward to the next room. He, however, stopped himself and proceeded slowly enough to keep quiet. There was absolutely no need in rushing and possibly killing both himself and Peril. He had no doubts that Gaby would still make it out of there alive, never mind anything he did. Their Chop Shop Girl was amazing that way; she was more than anything anyone thought of her.  
  
They were on a rescuing mission. By the U.N.C.L.E.’s staff’s miscalculations, on the previous one Peril had been captured, and Waverley had sent them a bottle of finest brandy as an apology, which only made Gaby sigh in exasperation. Solo, however, managed to drink it in two days while they were waiting for the rescuing mission, thus earning Gaby’s disapproving look. Multiple, actually; twenty three to be precise. He had been keeping count.  
  
“What is this dumpster, anyway?” Gaby’s voice rustled through his earpiece, lower than it usually was. She was worried and was trying to make the worry for their co-agent go away. Napoleon knew this trick perfectly, because he was the first one to do so during the missions, Illya silencing him immediately each time. He knew he was thinking about him way too much than was justified, but he couldn’t help it. About three missions into them working together he suddenly realised that Red Peril had grown on him. He didn’t have any particular name for what he felt towards his partner, but he was sure that if he actually expressed it in any way, he would be left without functioning fingers. And he kind of liked his fingers, so he remained silent. At the very least, he needed them for the assignments, even if whilst looking at Illya and daydreaming he imagined putting them to a very different and much more satisfying use.  
  
Cutting himself off on the inappropriate thoughts, he made his way through the room, the silence of which was a little disconcerting. He didn’t focus too much on it, but kept an eye out for anything that might potentially be dangerous, slowly moving on. Nothing went wrong, and that was only more suspicious. In the very next room he saw a red light, the sign under which read ‘intruders: evacuation’, and a screen counting down from 1:30 in seconds. Gaby followed him in the room and murmured, “Amateurs,” as she deactivated the self-destructing lab. They both had to admit that whoever they were dealing with this time were blind idiots, which didn’t make infiltrating them easier in the slightest. Solo, however, was now more concerned with the entrance to the next room, where he found a bin full of syringes and needles. He checked the room, and both to his relief and great worry all at once he found Illya, strapped to a lab chair in a corner, so obviously out of it. Napoleon rushed to release him, and he only chuckled at that.  
  
“Hey, Peril, just hold on a little bit there, okay?” Solo tried to make it sound nonchalant, not that it worked. He earned a quiet snort from Gaby and a foggy grin from Illya.  
  
“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m actually glad to see you,” replied Illya in what was probably supposed to be teasing voice, as if trying to copy Napoleon when they were in a reverse situation. He failed, Napoleon had to say. “Did you know your eyes like flo- did you know you have eyes like flowers? Colour and -” Kuryakin said drunkenly, his accent even thicker than usual. “It’s stupid, but also really cute,” he was staring at Solo from under his eyelashes that, Napoleon thought, were so long they should be banned, because it was utterly unfair to the rest of the population who didn’t have the perfect eyes and eyelashes. And because he thought they caused an addiction: he could not break eye contact even though he was still struggling to unstrap Illya from the chair.  
  
“Is he okay?” Gaby’s big-sistery voice came through and Solo muttered, “He’ll live,” into the microphone way more affectionately than he meant to. He managed to release Illya’s hands and was just going work on the head strap, bending down to be able to see what he was doing better when Peril reached up and caught his hands while looking him in the eyes. Solo froze on the spot, staring back, a question in his eyes. Very absently Illya gently brushed his thumb over Napoleon’s fingers almost bringing him to huff and brought Solo’s hand to rest against his temple.  
  
“Peril,” said Napoleon very quietly, catching Illya’s foggy gaze, “I still have to unstrap you.” Kuryakin looked at him cautiously and let go of his hand, dropping his own on the chair. Solo let out a sot exhale which, he could only hope, the Russian agent did not hear.  
  
When he was finished with the straps, he helped Peril to his feet, but the agent nearly fell over on his first step, so Napoleon had to catch him and help him up. He absolutely refused to admit that seeing Illya without his perfect composure and needing his help at least in this, _vulnerable_ he would think if he didn’t absolutely abhor this word and concept, caused a stirring in his chest. Or that he felt something unusually pleasant at Peril’s weight being placed on his shoulders by the arm he admired way too much for it to be sensible, whether it was relaxed and removing chess pieces from the board or flexed and holding a gun on a mission’s current battlefield. And even if he didn’t, he tried to blank out from these thoughts. Not that it ever worked.  
  
It turned out that they had given Illya so much tranquiliser Solo had to basically carry him out, having his arm on his shoulders and dragging him to the car. Peril was muttering something under his breath, not making any sense, while Solo tried to focus on the mission instead of the relief rushing through him when he felt Illya’s hand brush against his shoulder and overall at his sight and at the feeling of him beside him. They made it safely to the car; there was little to worry about now that they failed to catch the crazy scientist, but at least they had Illya. On the way back Gaby was in the front, checking the rooms just in case, but there was no call for such security, really. The hardest part was making it down the stairs, because for some reason the crazy scientist didn’t see that in a super-secret-high-tech-evil-two-stores lab a lift was required. However, it wasn’t _that_ hard, Illya still being able to move overall, so the whole retreat had gone pretty well. Probably one of the best one they had had yet. When they reached the car, Gaby slid into the driver’s seat, not sparing Solo any opportunity to escape sitting with Peril. Napoleon helped him into the back seat and reluctantly let go of his embrace once they were in the car, but Peril made an unsatisfied grunt and almost fell on Solo’s lap, holding him from the side.  
  
“ _Nyet_ *,” he whispered almost happily. “I want to be hugging you,” which had Napoleon frozen in place, forgetting how to move altogether, because _was he serious just now, was Peril really willing to actually touch him more than necessary and that hug was absolutely fantastic and gorgeous, the best hug he had ever had._  
  
“Thank you,” said Illya finally after about five minutes of silence, but it seemed like forever to Solo. “Thank you,” he repeated and planted a small kiss on his nose. Napoleon seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. He was surely not expecting anything like that from the Russian and he actually thought it impossible. His first idea was to check Illya for any hallucinogenic drugs. His next idea was to check himself for any hallucinogens, because there was absolutely no way for this to be actually happening to him.  
  
“If _that’s_ your ‘thank you’, Peril,” he tried to joke, but it came out low and very quiet and, he thought, very smitten. Gaby just snorted again, _absolutely not helping_ , “then my lips are a little further down.”  
  
He didn’t think Illya would do anything else, but the Russian chuckled, murmured something about the fact that Solo had it coming, reached down and actually kissed him. Solo’s eyes widened an unperceivable amount, and then snapped shut as he felt the weight of Illya’s tongue on his lower lip. He was almost sure that it was him who was on drugs, and made a mental note of checking himself for a concussion or drugs after Peril was done making out with him, because he couldn’t stop first for the life of his. He parted his lips slowly, checking the ground, and carefully brushed his tongue against Illya’s. But he didn’t draw back; in fact, he reached forward and hugged Napoleon even closer and followed his tongue. Napoleon was fighting with his everything not to let out a satisfied noise, not really because of the kiss, even though the kiss was just perfect, but rather because of whom it was with. He was so absolutely lost in the kiss, in the moment and in the person he was kissing, he missed the moment when Illya pulled back and missed his mouth the very second it wasn’t touching him. Solo knew he had been dreaming of that kiss for several fucking months by then, but he was really unsure of what it would mean to Peril. He wasn’t some thirteen-year-old in love; he was just hoping it didn’t mean his fingers broken. When Illya had broken the kiss, he smiled very hazily at Solo and murmured, “That enough for a thank you?” His body then went soft and mellow, and he practically melted into Solo’s lap, making him hyperaware of the feeling of absolute endearment that rose from his chest and was, he was sure, visible on his face when he looked down at sleeping Illya and lightly stroke his head.  
  
At first Gaby didn’t say anything, and Napoleon loved her for that, because he wasn’t ready for another round of ‘just how blind can you both be, you so obviously want each other.’ When she did speak, her voice cut through the silence of the car like a knife through butter, quiet and smooth, yet determined.  
  
“That was a ‘yes’ if I’ve ever seen one. Honestly, you’re behaving like little children. I feel like I should lock you two in a room until you talk everything out. I won’t,” she added, noticing in the back view mirror the look Solo shot her, “but it seems like the only option with how dumb you both are.”  
  
Napoleon didn’t answer, really, because he had pretty much nothing to say. He could always find a comeback, but this time it just seemed wrong to do that. So they drove through complete silence and peace, Gaby following the directions U.N.C.L.E. gave her to one of the safe houses where there would be some medical help for Kuryakin, said Kuryakin clutching at Solo in his sleep and Napoleon absent-mindedly stroking his hair, keeping one of his hands on his waist as if he was saying, “Mine,” to anyone who dared question that, still not believing in that himself, but almost desperately wishing it came true.  
  
When they had finally arrived at the safe house, Illya still had to be supported to be able to walk okay and he was on the verge of falling asleep. The medics told them it wasn’t anything really dangerous, not if he got enough rest for the following 36 hours, because, apparently, that was only the preparation for what Traverso was planning for him. Napoleon sighed and got control of his inner voice that told him to go and find this Traverso and teach him a lesson about _what happens when someone touches Illya_. However, he wasn’t exactly a possessive person, he was glad that the evil scientist was such an amateur and that Illya was going to be okay, and he tried to control his inappropriately personal attachment. It didn’t help that Peril leaned to him, staring with his almost-perceptive eyes and was mumbling something incoherent. Solo could tell, though, when he changed into Russian, because he felt like the room instantly got, like, ten degrees hotter, the sound of the language so right and different from what he was used to hearing. He felt dumb and wrong for feeling so strongly about Illya, and he was really embarrassed, right up until they got to Illya’s room and Solo helped him into bed. Kuryakin frowned and (“He’s going to be the death of me,” thought Solo) didn’t let go of his arm.  
  
“Need anything else, Peril?” patiently enquired Napoleon. He couldn’t help but feel absolutely smitten with Illya (and annoyed at the same time), but he didn’t need to show it.  
  
“I want to be hugging you,” he repeated the words from the car. Solo tried to demonstrate his exasperation, but he could only silently melt into the bed when Illya’s arms surrounded him as soon as he was laying on the mattress, and Illya laid his head on Napoleon’s chest. He seemed to be quite satisfied with everything now, and fell asleep slowly, while Solo couldn’t so much as breathe too much air in, scared of disturbing him. And he really did need some additional oxygen, as Peril’s close presence appeared to be intoxicating to him. He just hugged Illya closer, absent-mindedly running his hand over his back and wishing for the moment to never end. He was in complete and utter bliss, like never before, and, he thought in the moment, probably never after.  
  
Gaby didn’t want any safe house business to disturb these two lovebirds, so she closed the door to the room quietly and started filling in the report from the mission, having poured herself the third glass of the perfect scotch. Waverly did send them the best quality alcohol as a form of apology, thought she, placing the glass on the table carefully so as not to disturb the two bloody idiots and at the same time her favourite people in the world.


	2. Kiss me, babe, it's Christmas time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPD: I updated the chapter a little bit. It's not vital to re-read it or whatever, but it should ring nicely with the "happy new year"s in the next one.

“I’m not wearing that ridiculous thing,” the voice that came from the living room would be convincing if it wasn’t so obviously desperate trying-to-seem-exasperated. 

“Come on, it’s Christmas!” Solo heard Gaby say, her sly smile nearly audible. She then murmured something that Napoleon could have sworn sounded like “He’ll love it.” Not standing being in the dark, he came into the room only to find victorious Gaby and adorably blushing (although it might have just been the trick of light) and frowning at the same time Peril in a home-made Christmas sweater with reindeers on it. Solo choke back a laugh. 

“You look wonderful, Peril,” he could almost see the invisible blush on Illya’s cheeks deepen a shade. He also thought he saw a shy smile, gone in a mere moment. He still smiled back at him, immediately going over to Gaby to hug her and plant a little kiss at the top of her head. 

“Merry Christmas,” he didn’t think it was appropriate to congratulate a now former KGB agent with a religious holiday, so he didn’t, but he did look at him over Gaby’s shoulder. Illya looked content and relaxed, probably for the first time since Napoleon had seen him, except for that episode with the tranquilisers. He slept through the night then, clinging to Napoleon, leaving him breathless with joy, and peace, and tranquillity. In the morning he apologised twice, the rarest sight in the Universe since Solo had hardly seen him apologise once. He answered with a weak, “It’s okay,” leaving it to Gaby to roll her eyes until they stared inside her head, sigh with exasperation and make coffee. She just put two cups in the centre of the table, muttering, “Idiots,” under her breath in that irritated loving tone of hers.

“Merry Christmas, dear,” responded Gaby, her voice ringing with delight like the little bells that hung right over the door into their safe house at the time and made a small pleasing sound, harmoniously intertwining with the whisper of Christmas carols from the nearby village any time the door was opened. She stroked Solo on his back, almost maternally, and let go of him, returning to reading up on the current affairs, i.e. checking the U.N.C.L.E. post. 

Napoleon winked at Illya for some reason, he didn’t know why himself, and Illya just raised his eyebrow, casually following him into the kitchen. When Solo opened one of the shelves, it was clear that Gaby had had a word with Waverley, because there were about thirty bottles of red wine and bags of spices for making mulled wine. His eyebrows almost touched his hair line at the amount of alcohol provided to them for about one and a half weeks they were spending in that safe house. “Not bad,” he muttered to himself, taking two bottles and little sachets with spices from the shelf and lowering them onto the table before getting an orange from the fridge and easily cutting the zest off with his pocket knife. He didn’t even notice that Illya had quietly moved back and seated himself on one of the chairs in the kitchen, seemingly paying no attention to Napoleon cooking, but actually absolutely captured by the precision of his movements, not unlike in the field, yet somewhat more natural and relaxed.

Illya himself felt like he belonged in the field, mainly in battle, not excluding special tasks, but Solo was more of a thief, he was more of a sly fox that was okay with working for someone as long as he got something for himself out of it, but it wasn’t his perfect job. Kuryakin wondered for the thousandth time whether there was anything but what CIA had on him that actually made him stay. He doubted that but selfishly hoped he’d stay. He couldn’t deny that they had managed to become a great team, even though it almost hurt him to acknowledge it. Lost in his thoughts, he watched Napoleon stir the wine and lost the moment when Solo shot him a subtle look. He contemplated whether to pretend he was thinking over what he had read in the book in front of him or not to make any excuses for a second, and decided he trusted Napoleon better than to pretend he wasn’t looking at him in for all things. He kept his face still and only smiled when the thief - _now the agent_ \- turned away, smiling almost content. He didn’t miss that right after that Napoleon’s hand twitched over the wine, making him put a little more anise than he was supposed to, though. 

The kitchen was slowly filling up with the smell of orange, cinnamon, and red wine. Illya could almost feel the hot sweet drink on his tongue, smelling perfectly of winter evenings by the fire, the comfort of which was still almost foreign to him, yet it was so enticing and tempting. He would sometimes let Gaby and Napoleon talk him into joining them and let himself indulge in the perfection of sitting on the floor with them, drinking mulled wine and just talking, but not about their jobs or about anything deep, rather just joking around (after about half a year of working together they were surprised to discover that the Russian actually had a sense of humour). It was really nice, really nice indeed, and that was it, but Illya discovered that sometimes he didn’t really need more. Some winter nights are made for feeling nice and happy from the simplest things, and he just made sure he got the most out of them. 

Once again he found himself daydreaming and decided he was going to read at least a little, but his eyes lingered up and down Napoleon whilst he was busy putting the zest of an orange into the wine that by the time was smelling incredibly. Illya had been thinking everything over since a month before the most embarrassing night in his life when he was drugged and kissed Napoleon, and he had had plenty of time to make sure he was definitely feeling something towards him, and he was honest with himself, he couldn’t help admiring Solo physically. He did like him emotionally, more and more each week, especially as he had been learning the details of his life and could actually appreciate the content under the posed superficiality, sure. But the excuse that it was friendship was completely and utterly ruined for him when he had first felt how those fingers felt on his lips (they were just on a mission and Solo had to shush Illya, but when the fingers he so much admired while they were skilfully picking locks or trying to find a combination for a safe, touched his lips, it felt more intimate than, well, almost anything he had experienced, certainly more intimate and _hotter_ than he’d expected). 

He wasn’t exactly sure it wasn’t friendship, but he supposed it wasn’t. His eyes sometimes did wander off around Napoleon’s body, taking it all in and admiring him (and maybe, just maybe thinking how his skin would feel under Illya’s fingers, purely academic interest. And lips, yes, under his lips as well. Alright, maybe not so academic, _fine_ ), but he wasn’t as rush as to think it actually meant something. Yeah, alright, maybe it did mean that it wasn’t exactly just friendship, but... could it still be one? Kuryakin didn’t have the time to finish his thought when Napoleon announced, “It’s ready,” in a cheery voice and gestured for Illya to take three mugs and a bottle of wine while he triumphantly paraded into the living room, holding the pot with mulled wine in his gloved hands. The Russian was quick to follow him, carefully placing the mugs and the wine on the table near Gaby. He looked at the bottle, then at Gaby, then at Napoleon starting to pour the mulled wine into the mugs. Illya watched, captivated, how Solo’s fingers were holding the ladle, and he felt the room get a little stuffier. He excused himself to go and fetch the glasses, and tugged at the collar of his sweater when he was sure Napoleon wasn’t looking. He walked into the kitchen, Gaby and Napoleon’s chitchat audible even there, grabbed three glasses from the closet and walked back into the living room, trying to make this process as long as possible, not quite ready to face Solo without having put all the inappropriate thoughts away. As he walked into the living room, Gaby snatched the glasses from his hands and placed them on the table, not even letting him step over the porch. At the same time Solo was going to get something from the kitchen, so they ended up standing right next to each other when Gaby gleefully announced, “Look up!”

Napoleon raised his eyes and finally understood why Gaby was so cheerful all of a sudden. Yes, Peril and he were, indeed, standing underneath a branch of mistletoe which someone (Gaby, no doubt) had put up the night before. Solo just sighed on the verge of chuckling, but Illya didn’t seem to know where everything was going. He just looked at Napoleon with a question in his eyes.

“Mistletoe,” explained Solo. Seeing that Peril needed further explanation, he elaborated, “There’s a tradition that whenever you are standing with someone underneath mistletoe, you have to kiss them.”

“It’s a stupid tradition, I’m not kissing Cowboy,” Illya said to no one in particular. Napoleon would have believed him if it wasn’t for Gaby being in the room, the sweetheart that she is, she would never let him get away with that, and Illya’s ears wearing a shade of red, dark enough to be visible, yet not so dark to be sure. Maybe, their Chop Shop girl was actually right and he had grown on Peril, too. Gaby just looked at him, unimpressed, while pouring herself a glass of red wine. Illya tried to step away, but the girl’s eyes went dangerously thin and almost angry at the thought that the master plan she had in mind to actually get those two together could miss a step because one of them was being a stubborn idiot. 

“Don’t you dare,” she chided. “If you walk away on Solo, I will pour this bottle of wine into your favourite cap,” Napoleon appreciated the sentiment of the fact that she didn’t specify ‘right now’, even though it probably wasn’t something she meant to say. He also couldn’t help relishing in how Peril’s cheeks went adorably almost-pink, hardly noticeably, but still. Oh God, he was behaving like a teenager. 

“This is ridiculous,” muttered Illya and for some reason placed his hand on Napoleon’s waist, bringing him closer. Oh, right. He was actually going through with the mistletoe thing.

Solo held his breath, looking into Illya’s eyes. He was trying to look as smug and smooth as possible whilst scolding himself for going soft, which was not that easy. He reached up, cupping Illya’s jaw and bringing him into the kiss. It was tender, just lips touching, but Napoleon _felt_ how Kuryakin relaxed into the touch and decided to try something. He let his tongue dart out, brushing along Illya’s lower lip, and then Peril opened his mouth, but not exactly _into_ the kiss, he just caught Napoleon’s tongue between his teeth just past his lips and didn’t let go. It wasn’t painful, but Solo froze. He held really still while Peril brazed along his tongue with his teeth, reaching the very tip, brushing against it with his own tongue. It was all Napoleon could do not to moan out loud, especially with Illya bringing him even closer and nearly grinding on him. Then he placed his arm between Peril’s shoulder blades, and he bit his lip. Solo just held onto him for his dear life, going mad with bliss of that fleeting moment and just wishing for the kiss to never end as Illya licked the place where he had bitten his lip. 

They finally broke the kiss, and Solo might have just fallen down were it not for Illya holding his waist, looking absolutely perfect with his lips red and well-kissed.

_To tell the truth, Illya thought that Napoleon was looking positively obscene, his lips swollen from the kiss they just shared, the blush on his cheeks, almost panting, and overall looking not his usual have-it-together self, but rather dishevelled and nearly insane. He wanted to lean in and kiss him again and again, running his fingers through his hair, not covered in an insane amount of hair gel, so he ran his hand against Solo’s cheek, no hint of stubble how, for god’s sake, how, and –_

“Merry Christmas, Peril,” murmured Napoleon, looking at Illya. And the latter found it in himself to stop before he did anything stupid, like show Cowboy what he felt about him, so he let go of his embrace, heading towards the table on which Gaby was sitting.

“O-oh, hot stuff,” smugly whistled she, pouring herself another glass of wine. Illya just took the bottle from her hand, taking one big gulp not even caring enough to take a glass and setting it on the table with a thud. Solo looked at the Russian’s back, so smitten and happy that Gaby rolled her eyes. “Get a room.”

Neither Illya, nor Solo had it in them to answer Gaby, so Napoleon just poured himself some mulled wine while trying not to notice that Illya’s ears were definitely pink now and think of a way to actually get the proof that he likes him and doesn’t suffer from internalised homophobia (Solo tried that once, it was such a mess he ran from the guy’s window and they weren’t even dating). And Illya tried not to notice just how happy Napoleon was and how kissable his red lips were, especially after the wine, as he guessed.

...

After about two cups of mulled wine and three glasses of pinot noir each, all three of them ended up on the floor, talking about more or less anything that came into their minds. It‘s just as much the wine as the overall spirit of celebration and closeness with everyone and just feeling _at home_ that contribute to that.

...

After they were on about tenth bottle of wine everything was very blurry and foggy for Napoleon and the only thing he could remember (although he might have been dreaming) was him lying in someone’s lap, a gentle hand in his hair and a whispered, “Merry Christmas, Cowboy,” into his ear. 


End file.
